Memories
by Islew
Summary: The aged Dragonborn, after all of his years of adventuring, takes some alone time to look over all of his accomplishments. Of course, there is some regret sprinkled in with all of his achievements. A lot of it, in fact.


The ash became still on the isle of Solthseim, as peace had finally been achieved, for the most part. The World-Eater 'Alduin', the First Dragonborn 'Miraak', and the insane vampire Harkon (along with the Dawnguard) had all been slain for the greater good. Ulfric Stormcloak and his rebellion had been quelled by the Emprie's mighty forces, the Dark Brotherhood had entered a new golden age alongside the Theives' Guild, and yet... Something felt empty.

To be specific, something inside the soul of the Dragonborn, the one who had brought about all this change, felt empty. As he gazed upon the various pieces of armour and other memorabilia from his adventures, he remembered how they had been acquired. First, a Stormcloak helmet. He remembered the screams of pure terror from the soldier, the blood spilling onto the field... He remembered the man under the helmet. The man who helped him escape Helgen. The man's name was forgotten, but the memory was still strong in the Dovahkiin's mind.

Next, the Emperor's exquisite gown. The flowing garment was beautifully crafted, with the Empire's emblem carefully stitched onto the chest. The only thing tarnishing it was the torn fabric, where flesh had once been. The bloodstained clothing held a special place in the Dragonborn's heart. The previous owner was the Emperor of Tamriel, killed on the 27th of Last Seed, 4E 202, years apart from another Emperor assassinated on that day. He couldn't bring himself to stare upon it any further, though he at least found solace in the fulfilling of Titus Mede's last request. The slimy bastard who ordered this, Amaund Motierre, was now dead.

Lying next to the gown was an intricate mask, designed like that of a humanoid face with tentacles growing from the mouth. Miraak's mask. It was kept in a locked display case, along with Lord Harkon's sword. A question ringed in the Last Dragonborn's mind: "Do you ever wonder if it hurts? To have your soul ripped out like that?" This one sentence completely destroyed the Dovahkiin's dragon-slaying prowess. To add insult to injury, this had been uttered on the same day Paarthurnax was murdered by the supposed 'hero'.

He decided not to dwell on these thoughts, and instead brought himself to a bear's head. It had been re-purposed as a helmet, for the officers of the Stormcloak rebellion. This particular one was donned by Galmar Stone-Fist, Ulfric's right-hand man. Galmar's pleas for mercy and the pathetic crawl he attempted began to all come back to the Dovahkiin. It did not feel like a glorious battle, as General Tullius saw it. Instead, it was a slaughter. The things that happened in Windhelm would get the ones responsible executed under other circumstances. On the same note of circumstance, perhaps if the situation had been different, the Last Dragonborn would've been friends, almost, with Ulfric Stormcloak.

A single tear escaped the Dovahkiin's glowing orange eye, as he gazed upon the dark-blue and brown robes of Brelyna Maryon, his loving wife of three years. The robes were not at all special, at least not on a physical value anyway. They were torn and covered in blood. However, the sentimental value was what mattered to the Dragonborn. This robe had once belonged to his wife. He had been on many adventures with his lover, before they decided to settle down in Riften, to help make it a better place. Brelyna's death deeply affected the Dragonborn and his adopted children, Samuel and Runa. A close friend of the Dovahkiin's had helped Samuel develop his thieving skills, ready to become the new guildmaster, while Runa dreamed of becoming a well-known bard. She would be sent to Solitude to study when she was old enough...

The old wooden door creaked as it closed, sealing away all of these memories. Sabaton rested for a while, embracing the remains of his wife in a specially made coffin. He would reward his comrades at castle Volkihar soon, to show his gratitude. After all, they helped shape his life, or rather, unlife. After a while, a familiar voice accompanied a knock on the grand double-doors. What was his name again? Hadvar, yes, that was it... Maybe they would share their experiences over some Sujamma. Geldis Sadri had brewed a new sample, and the Dovahkiin was always granted the honour of first sip.


End file.
